


ain't nobody fresher than my motherfuckin' clique

by postcardmystery



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Take your boots off,” says Combeferre, distantly, when Courfeyrac opens the door. Combeferre’s back is to the door, hunched over his desk, the sharp line of his shoulders taut with concentration. Enjolras is sitting in Combeferre’s bed, a book in his hands that has never been studied at any university in Paris. His feet are bare and his hair is, like Courfeyrac’s, a little damp. There is a small bruise at his hairline that echoes a gash down Combeferre’s right calf and a thick red line around Courfeyrac’s left wrist. Paris is restless, and more and more of its street corners rise when their leader makes his call. The back of Courfeyrac’s neck is still wet and his clothes soaked through to the bone, but for one brief, glorious second, he sees the ink under Enjolras’s fingernails and the edge of Combeferre’s smile as he turns his head, just a little, and he is the warmest he has ever been. A second, and then it’s gone.</p><p>Or, nine incidents from a life lived in threes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ain't nobody fresher than my motherfuckin' clique

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whoistorule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoistorule/gifts).



> For [Michele](http://whoistorule.tumblr.com/) and [Maddi](http://belinsky.tumblr.com/) , the greatest 'Ferre and Enjolras a girl could ever ask for. (Argue it now, Maddi.) Also because they wanted cuddle-piles, I wanted cuddle-piles, and suddenly I'd lost control of my life and written more than three thousand words of cuddling. I'd mount a defence, except that I don't actually have one.
> 
> Warnings for police violence and major character death! This is a story with cuddling, but it's still, you know, _this canon_.

i.

Rain never quite seems to grey Paris.

The water has been trickling down the back of Courfeyrac’s neck for half an hour, and he’s cursed the entire way there that Combeferre deliberately chose lodgings so far away from the Musain. It was perhaps a more sensible move than Courfeyrac had been willing to admit when Combeferre first announced it, not least because Combeferre’s floor remains entirely unoccupied and Courfeyrac now shares his apartment with Marius, who falls in love every other week and has a marked tendency to spill his ink-pot on the rug, and, on one memorable occasion, in Courfeyrac’s bed. Combeferre is desperately sensible and had been kind enough not to laugh too much when he saw what remained of Courfeyrac’s mattress, so Courfeyrac supposes he can forgive him such sensibleness, in time.

This does not prevent him throwing pebbles he found in the street at Combeferre’s window for a good three minutes, however. 

It’s Enjolras who opens the window, and his face clears from genuine annoyance into something somewhat more fond when he sees whose hands it is that are now blackened from the street debris.

“If you could stop doing that, I should think Combeferre’s landlady would be very pleased indeed,” he says, “You may come up if you promise to discuss Tort with him, you know I cannot bear it.”

“I would promise to defend the divine right of kings if you could guarantee me a fire,” says Courfeyrac, “For God’s sake, man, let me in, I cannot feel my feet!”

“The door is already open,” says Enjolras, with a small smile, and regrettably closes the window before Courfeyrac’s abuse can reach his ears in full.

 

 

“Take your boots off,” says Combeferre, distantly, when Courfeyrac opens the door. Combeferre’s back is to the door, hunched over his desk, the sharp line of his shoulders taut with concentration. Enjolras is sitting in Combeferre’s bed, a book in his hands that has never been studied at any university in Paris. His feet are bare and his hair is, like Courfeyrac’s, a little damp. There is a small bruise at his hairline that echoes a gash down Combeferre’s right calf and a thick red line around Courfeyrac’s left wrist. Paris is restless, and more and more of its street corners rise when their leader makes his call. The back of Courfeyrac’s neck is still wet and his clothes soaked through to the bone, but for one brief, glorious second, he sees the ink under Enjolras’s fingernails and the edge of Combeferre’s smile as he turns his head, just a little, and he is the warmest he has ever been. A second, and then it’s gone.

“Kindly allow me to get through the door,” mutters Courfeyrac, and as he shuts it behind him Combeferre says, “Excellent. I can smell the mud on you from here. Take your boots off.”

“I rather think the law is addling your brain,” says Courfeyrac, but pulls them off anyway, then shrugs and strips down to his underclothes until even his chest is bare.

“I rather think the law is addling _yours_ ,” says Enjolras, looking up at him with his eyebrow raised, marking his place in his book with a long finger, and Courfeyrac grins at him and pushes at his legs.

“Move,” says Courfeyrac, “Or is it a dear wish of yours for me to contract pneumonia?”

“I still do not see why this requires the removal of all of your clothing,” says Enjolras, and Combeferre twitches out of his reverie, says, “I am going to turn around. Please do not make me regret doing so, Courfeyrac.”

“Do not be a child,” says Courfeyrac, as Combeferre turns and folds his arms, “You have seen all of this before and you shall see all of it again.”

“Get in the bed,” says Combeferre, sighing, “You are shivering and you are not going to die on my watch.”

Courfeyrac allows Combeferre to crowd him towards the bed, and Enjolras slides over without a word, drawing back the blankets and leaning over to make room. It is not until Combeferre puts a hand onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder that Courfeyrac realises how cold he is, the skin of Combeferre’s palm blazing hot against his own.

“My friend,” says Enjolras, quietly, “Your teeth are rattling in your skull. Come, give me your hands.”

The blankets are warm from Enjolras as Courfeyrac climbs in, Combeferre following him, and Enjolras takes Courfeyrac’s hands in his own as Combeferre pulls Courfeyrac close, ruffling his hair as he goes.

“I am much colder than I believed myself to be,” says Courfeyrac, a little dazed by all the sudden heat, and Enjolras’s voice is kind as he says, “I am sure we had not noticed.”

“Not even a little,” says Combeferre, and Courfeyrac puts his head on Combeferre’s shoulder, says, “Well. That’s quite all right, then.”

“I’m shocked you have not impugned our honour yet, if the truth be told,” says Combeferre, and Courfeyrac yawns, says, “Perhaps later. Wake me when you want me to read your pamphlet, Enjolras.”

“Of course,” Enjolras lies, and Combeferre meets his eyes, grins.

 

 

When Courfeyrac awakes, Enjolras is reading _Of The Social Contract_ , the light of revolution burning in his eyes, and Combeferre is snoring uproariously, his hand curled around Courfeyrac’s own and his hair tangled with Courfeyrac’s. Courfeyrac slips back into sleep and does not notice the way Enjolras’s eyes burn with a different sort of fire entirely as they slip, slowly and briefly, to the left. 

The wood in Combeferre’s fireplace crackles and the rain pours down and there is no noise but the flicking of a book’s pages and the heavy breathing of a pair tired young men who are the most beautiful thing in Paris to the man in bed beside them, and, for an hour or two, it is so very, very still.

 

 

ii.

The police come, so Enjolras is soon dragged off the box he stands on, preaching of the brotherhood he himself has known and which he would give anything for all men to know in turn. The crowd is wild and the air electric, but there are so many people on the streets of Paris, and so many alleyways in which to hide, Combeferre’s hand pressed over Courfeyrac’s mouth and mud smeared down the back of Enjolras’s jacket.

“Damn it, man,” says Combeferre, as quiet as he can manage, “I think your finger is broken.”

Enjolras is cradling his hand gingerly, the purpling from an officer’s boot already evident in the places where his skin is broken.

“ _Shit_ ,” says Courfeyrac, “Those _bastards_. Enjolras, they could have killed you.”

“They might still,” says Enjolras, grimly, and Courfeyrac’s whole face crumples, and he wraps his arm around Enjolras’s waist and presses his face into where his neck meets his shoulder, says, “You _can’t_. The revolution lives in you but that requires you to _live_ , I would take ten bullets for you and I can but hope you know it, but to die crushed by a terrified mob? It cannot be so. You cannot be so. Do not be so reckless, I beg of you.”

“Courf, my friend,” says Combeferre, gently, pulling both of them close to him, leaning in so his breath is hot on Courfeyrac’s ear, “We must leave, or else we risk discovery.”

Courfeyrac takes a shaky breath, and lets him Combeferre lead him away, his hand in his and Combeferre’s other hand sure on Enjolras’s shoulder. Behind them, nothing remains, but a few splashes of the blood of a leader and the bootprints of those who stand beside him, the places where the boots had been lined in red.

 

 

iii.

“You cannot pass your exams if you are dead,” says Combeferre, steadily, and Enjolras does not look up from his books, says, “Spare me such melodrama, my friend.”

“You have not eaten for nearly four days,” says Courfeyrac, his voice low and gentle, “We have reached the juncture where melodrama is permitted.”

Enjolras’s hair is tangled and there is ink smudged across his right earlobe. He removed his cravat some time ago, and he could not tell you where he had put it if the answer would topple the king. His shirt is open almost to the navel and his feet are bare and the circles beneath his eyes the colour of a dawn storm. 

“Do you not own a looking glass?” says Courfeyrac, blithely, “You look quite a fright, fearless leader.”

“What is it that you want of me?” says Enjolras, putting down his quill, and feeling, for the first time, how his limbs ache.

“Perhaps a little sleep?” says Combeferre, “And afterwards, we are taking you to the Musain, where we shall watch you consume a meal whether you like it or not.”

“But I could sleep for ten hours or more,” says Enjolras, rubbing at his eyes, “You shall have to return in the morning.”

“Quite,” says Courfeyrac, who is already tugging at his cravat, “Or we could _not_ do that, for if we do that, you shall awaken in a few hours and go back to work. You trust us to plan a revolution with you but you believe that we should be fooled with something even Marius would not believe, my God, man, take off your shirt and get in that bed right this moment, you’re practically speaking in _tongues_.”

“I feel rather as if I am going to be deeply offended by that in the morning,” says Enjolras, and Courfeyrac snickers quietly as Combeferre throws him a long-suffering look.

Enjolras pulls his shirt over his head with unsteady hands, and walks, a tad shakily, to his bed, and perches on the end with a face like thunder.

“There,” says Enjolras, with great finality, “I am in the bed, you may leave now.”

“Not even the slightest chance, Enjolras,” says Courfeyrac, and tugs Combeferre’s cravat free in one smooth movement.

“Was that quite necessary,” says Combeferre, dryly, and Courfeyrac grins at him, the warmth in his eyes belying the wickedness of his smile.

“Necessary? It was _quite necessary_ , ’Ferre, for nothing is ever as glorious as your face when I do something unexpected,” says Courfeyrac, and he laughs at Combeferre’s fond smile, and gives him a small shove towards the bed.

“In with you,” says Courfeyrac, “Enjolras may take the centre, for once, I shan’t be heartbroken.”

“Your hands are colder than an iceblock,” Enjolras mumbles, when Courfeyrac threads his fingers through his hair, his head on Combeferre’s chest and Courfeyrac’s other arm about his waist.

“Hush,” says Courfeyrac, “You may admonish me for it in the morning, you know how you shall enjoy that.”

“ _Hmmmm_ ,” says Enjolras, dubiously, and falls asleep with his fingers curled into Combeferre’s shirt and the ghost of the press of Courfeyrac’s lips against his temple.

 

 

iv.

“You are drunk as a lord,” says Enjolras, and his lips are set in a judgemental line but he cannot quite help how his eyes dance with amusement.

“Yes, indeed, I am, which is quite ironic when you consider it,” says Courfeyrac, leaning into Enjolras’s face, the heel of his palm digging into Enjolras’s thigh and brandy thick on his breath, “And in the morning, I shall be drunk no longer. But I love you now, and I shall love you then, even if you do persist in making the face that you are making now, and--”

“What have we here?” says Combeferre, nudging Courfeyrac over easily so he can join them on the bench, and Courfeyrac slumps against him, his head lolling back onto Combeferre’s shoulder.

“Courfeyrac was informing me in no uncertain terms of his adoration,” says Enjolras, meeting Combeferre’s eyes, and Combeferre does what he does rarely, but beautifully, every time-- exactly what Enjolras does not expect him to.

“Then I cleave my voice to his in agreement, then,” he says, and smirks as Enjolras flushes red.

“Ha! See!” says Courfeyrac, and Combeferre deigns to let him kiss sloppily at his neck before he drags him to his feet, says, “Come, you drunkard. You may sleep with me tonight.”

“Only if he comes too,” says Courfeyrac, aiming for ‘fey’ and hitting ‘manic’, and Enjolas sighs theatrically, says, “Oh, if I must.”

“I insist on being the centre this time,” says Courfeyrac, and takes one of each of his friends’ hands in his, and leads them home-- and, and he is rather proud of this, only stumbles _once_.

 

 

v.

“And who is your handsome friend?” says Courfeyrac, and his smirk does not dim when the man beside Combeferre snorts indignantly. He did not lie, the man is handsome, or, more accurately, _beautiful_ , and there is something in his eyes that Courfeyrac does not think he would see again if he lived for a thousand years.

“An ally,” says Combeferre, slowly, carefully, drawing Courfeyrac in, a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, a single finger hot against the tendon of Courfeyrac’s neck. He leads the man to Courfeyrac with a hand on the man’s elbow, and when Courfeyrac grasps the hand of the man whose name he is about to learn is _Enjolras_ , the heat of Combeferre still stark against the line of his throat and Combeferre’s hand still about Enjolras’s slender arm, his blood begins to sing.

 

 

vi.

There is nothing more lovely than Paris in the springtime.

This is a lie Courfeyrac tells every year, arms slung around Enjolras and Combeferre both, trying to trick them into strolling in the park or wandering in an arcade or simply sitting outside the Musain for once, the sun turning Courfeyrac’s hair russet and glinting off a smile whose charm is as natural as breathing. It illuminates the ink at Combeferre’s cuffs and the red tint to Enjolras’s eyes, all of their fingers a little unsteady after nights and nights of fond argument and meeting each other’s fervour with more certainty. 

“I wish it might always be the spring,” says Courfeyrac, and Combeferre nods, his nose buried in a book, and Enjolras favours Courfeyrac with a rare, sharp, smile.

 

 

vii.

“I simply do not understand what all the fuss is about,” says Enjolras, from where he’s sat on Combeferre’s floor, “It seems most unsanitary.”

Courfeyrac laughs, bright and affectionate, sprawled in the bed, his hair tousled from a nap, says, “Well, I suppose it would seem more than a little odd if one had never been driven to try it.”

“Kiss me, then,” says Enjolras, leaning back, tipping his face up, and he’s not quite teasing but he’s not quite serious either, “Enlighten me as you always threaten to do.”

“I do not think you should encourage him,” says Combeferre, looking up from his desk, “You of all people should be well aware that if you dare this reprobate to do something, he does, in fact, do it.”

“Come up here, Enjolras,” says Courfeyrac, sticking his tongue out at Combeferre, “I will kiss you for revolution and country, you see if I shan’t.”

“Very well,” says Enjolras, and crawls into bed beside Courfeyrac, pushing his hair behind his ears as he goes.

“If you do not want me to do this, say no,” says Courfeyrac, and he is perfectly capable of being serious, he does so all the time, but Enjolras thinks he has not seen quite this much quiet firmness since Combeferre was last injured by the police.

“Do it,” is all he says, and Courfeyrac presses his mouth against his lips, closed-mouthed, soft and simple and not-quite-brief. Enjolras’s lips do not tingle, but he finds that he misses Courfeyrac’s warmth once it is gone.

“Your turn, Combeferre,” says Courfeyrac, as he draws back, and Combeferre sighs the sigh of a man who knows he will not be permitted to return to his inheritance law textbook until he has indulged his ridiculous friend, and he stands and kneels at Enjolras’s feet, pulls him down into a kiss that is equally soft and kind.

Enjolras opens his eyes when Combeferre gets back on his feet, and Courfeyrac hisses with indignation beside him, says, “Do not think you may leave me out, ’Ferre.”

“I had rather hoped--” starts Combeferre, and then Courfeyrac is on his feet, also, and pulling Combeferre into a kiss that is both open-mouthed and with significantly more force behind it than either of those they had granted Enjolras. When Courfeyrac pulls back he looks extremely pleased with himself and Combeferre is flushed pink. He follows Courfeyrac’s mouth with his own until he catches himself, and at that even Enjolras manages to look knowing when he catches Combeferre’s eye.

“There, now we are all equal, as it should be,” says Courfeyrac, and bounds back to bed. Enjolras leans easily against his side, and permits Courfeyrac to put his arm about him. Combeferre goes back to his desk, but the tension that had been in his shoulders only moments before is gone. After a little while, Courfeyrac reads to them from a volume of poetry Jehan had been kind enough to permit him to steal, and Combeferre comes to lie on Courfeyrac’s other side, and even goes to far as to play, just a little, with Courfeyrac’s fingers with his own. Courfeyrac’s eyes are full of wonder for the entire duration, until, eventually, he falls asleep first, his fingers intertwined with Combeferre’s and his head on Enjolras’s chest.

“I shall blow out the candle,” says Combeferre, and Enjolras’s reply is naught but a sleepy mumble of assent. 

Outside, it begins to snow.

 

 

viii.

“We are going to die for you,” says Courfeyrac, his voice rattling in his chest, “For this.”

His face is bruised and his body bloody. It has been a long night, and the morning will not be so bright, after all.

“I do not _want_ you to,” says Enjolras, the ache of it ripping into his chest like a knifewound. “You do not need to die. It will not-- the future is certain. I would prefer you live to see it.”

“And however would that go,” says Combeferre, patient but with steel to it, stripping the cloth of his shirt to bind a gash in his hand, “Beaten in the streets, our hair shaved off and our legs broken, hung like dogs? I think not.”

“It is because I love you both that I do this,” says Enjolras, his eyes wide and desperate, and Courfeyrac ghosts the echo of a smirk the barricade has not seen all night long, says, “It is because we love _you_ that we do this! How dare you suggest that we would leave you to die alone. How dare you suggest that we do such a thing, how _dare_ you.”

“Come to me,” says Combeferre, opening his arms, guiding them in, “Have you forgotten, my dear friend, my dearest friend? Revolution is an act of love.”

Enjolras digs his fingers into Combeferre’s hair and Courfeyrac’s shoulder and listens to them breathe, glories in it, and fights them no longer. They will die together, as it should have always been, as it can be naught else, as it will always be.

Beyond the barricade, as dawn begins to lick at the horzion, comes the stamp of booted feet.

 

 

ix.

“Your exams are not until the week after next,” says Enjolras, opening his door, and Courfeyrac smiles, as startling as the May sunshine, says, “Entirely true. Do let me in, I do believe your landlady thinks I am a burglar, and I would not like to meet her in a dark alley, or, the truth be told, on the way back down the stairs.”

“Might her suspicions not bear some relation to that time you did, in fact, break into this room?” says Combeferre, stretched out on Enjolras’s bed, his spectacles low on the bridge of his nose and his eyebrow raised.

“ _Once_ ,” says Courfeyrac, “I did that _once_ , honestly, you might think I went around breaking into every lodging house in Paris!”

“You broke into mine, too,” says Combeferre, and Courfeyrac narrows his eyes, says, “You had _influenza_. I thought you were going to _die_.”

“If that is the story you persist in sticking to, I cannot help you,” says Combeferre, easily.

“Irrelevant,” says Courfeyrac, waving a hand, “Regardless, move over, you are taking up far too much space.”

“But you do not have an exam until the week after next,” repeats Enjolras, and Courfeyrac grins, says, “No, I suppose I do not.”

“What about-- that girl--” starts Combeferre, and Courfeyrac waves another easy hand, says, “No. Not at all. Do get in, Enjolras, I demand to be in the centre and to be in the centre requires a third party.”

“This is all I have for you to read,” says Enjolras, passing Courfeyrac a sheaf of hand-written notes, and Combeferre sighs, says, “I hope you are aware that I must study this damned monarchistic nonsense all night.”

“I assure you, my friends,” says Courfeyrac, slipping a foot under Combeferre’s calf and putting his head on Enjolras’s shoulder, “I am exactly where I ought to be.”


End file.
